


conceal me what i am

by sunshine_states



Series: apocalypse how [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Winternight Series - Katherine Arden
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Manipulative Behavior, averting the apocalypse by Making More Witches, the Bear's questionable take on morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_states/pseuds/sunshine_states
Summary: Jon gets dumped. The Bear makes a friend.
Series: apocalypse how [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570090
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	conceal me what i am

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently obscure crossovers are my brand now. Title from "Twelfth Night," because, again, I am Pretentious.

The man at the bar is sad and beautiful, and so of course the Bear chooses him. He has always had a weakness for long, elegant fingers and soulful poet’s eyes. This one is diminutive, dark-skinned and slim. His hair is prematurely streaked with gray. Something about the nervous movement of his hands – or perhaps the distant, moody gaze – reminds the Bear of Gogol.

He had quite liked Gogol, although he also gave him more than a few nightmares. They seemed to add a certain authenticity to his more frightening tales, though, so perhaps the Bear had done him a favor after all.

“You seem troubled,” he says pleasantly, sliding onto a stool and nodding at the bartender.

The man grunts.

“Tell me,” the Bear continues in his most persuasive tone, “what troubles you? I hate to see a young man look so sorrowful.”

The man shrugs, hunching over a little more. It’s absolutely dreadful for his posture, but the Bear suspects this advice would not go over well. “Breakup.”

“Ah,” the Bear says, nodding. He knows the look – the thin-lipped silence of his brother when Vasya is annoyed with him. Lovers, ugh. “Well, in that case, let me buy you something to soothe the sting.”

“No, that’s – “ the man begins, but the bartender is already there, and he deflates a little, sighing. “Fine. Just – another pint.”

“Bill it to me,” the Bear says, although he hasn't carried money on his person since approximately the 18th century. The bartender will forget they were ever here, in any case.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the man says waspishly, and oh, the Bear likes him. “I’m perfectly capable of buying my own drinks.”

“Can I not render comfort to a young man in distress?” the Bear says, enjoying all of this immensely.

“I don’t need to be picked up, either.”

“I am not,” the Bear rummages through his store of English words, “propositioning you. I am offering you a drink. And perhaps, if you wish, a listening ear.”

The man meets his gaze, and the Bear realizes at once that this one has the Sight, and strongly so at that. Perhaps nearly Vasya’s equal in power, albeit untrained. And laid over his own innate gift, dull and clinging as cobwebs, is the mark of the Mother of Puppets.

It isn’t that the Bear disapproves of what these creatures _do_. In his time has stolen faces and raised corrupting plagues and fed on mortal fear until his shadow blotted out the stars. No, he does not disapprove, not exactly. But the humans are _his -_ his to protect and teach and terrify, his to ply with nightmares and honey-cakes. These outsiders pushing their fingers through the fabric of reality have no true place in this realm, not as he does. This is his world. He grew into godhood here, flourishing in the rich earth and lightless forests of Rus' like a black fungus; a rotting, poisonous thing, yes, but something that has always _belonged._ And he _resents_ having his prey stolen from under his nose.

And now this man, an untrained witch with the mark of the Web, is sitting right beside him, full to the brim with love and longing and untapped potential. He bites back a sharp-toothed smile. Well, then. What fun.

“It doesn’t matter,” the man says at last, quietly. “None of it matters. Just – drop it.”

“Very well,” the Bear says, as gently as he once spoke with Vasya, with Konstantin. “Then tell me about yourself.”

The man means to say nothing, he can tell; the man means to turn away, to get up and leave, perhaps to curl up in his bed alone and brood over someone who is most assuredly not brooding over _him_. But he is also lonely, and bitter, and sad, and the Bear knows these emotions. He knows them very well.

“You do not _need_ to,” he says. “But it may make you feel better. I am only a stranger, after all. Who would I tell?”

The man hesitates so long that the Bear wonders if this final play will not work after all. But then the man’s shoulders sag, and the fight seems to go out of him all at once.

“I’m Jon,” he says. “Jonathan Sims.”

“Hello, Jon,” the Bear says cheerfully. The bartender comes back with their drinks and he pushes the ale across the counter. “You may call me Kostya. I have a feeling we shall be _great_ friends.”

The new hire is almost perfect. A bookish and reclusive personality. An early encounter with the Web. A desperate, bone-deep instinct to trust in authority. All things being equal, he could easily be molded into a useful and obedient instrument in the great plan. But there is something about Jonathan Sims that nags at Elias for days after his paperwork is signed, and finally he calls his new researcher to his office.

“Are you happy here?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jon says uncertainly.

“Good,” Elias says. If he Looks just a few more moments he will have it. He will Know. “I would like for you to be happy here. You’re quite an impressive young man, you know.”

“Thank you?” Jon says. He looks nervous, and awkward, and, aside from the unmistakable mark of the Web, terribly mundane. But -

The thing, the Other, whatever it is, is there. A shadow’s shadow. This should not be possible – the Dark has always been difficult to track, but it is at least _recognizable_. This, on the other hand, is like trying to see in an entirely different spectrum of light.

“If you’re in trouble,” he says, “you mustn’t hesitate to let me know. I’m here to help.”

“Of course, Elias,” Jon says, stiffly polite. “I appreciate your concern.” A pause as they both stare at each other. “May I go now?”

“Yes, yes,” Elias says, and waits until the door is shut before picking up the phone. He doesn’t Know what is happening, and currently he cannot deduce it through more conventional means, either. And, well – that makes him rather twitchy.

In the hall, Jonathan Sims looks back at the door. A faint frown furrows his brow, and then he hurries down the corridor, already thinking of tea and biscuits and which of the statements today will be true.

If anyone cared to look – and certain interested parties have made very sure that they won’t, not even here, in the crucible where monsters are born – they might see the shadow of a bear loping along beside the small, tense figure of the Head Archivist. It’s larger than any normal animal, its bristling back brushing the ceiling, the kind of unreal, oversized beast that hikers tell tall tales about around their fires.

The Head Archivist only smiles.

“Very well,” he murmurs. “but this time I pick the tea.”


End file.
